


Somebody's Chelsea

by LinguistLove_24



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Gen, Multi, POV First Person, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 11:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11577558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/LinguistLove_24
Summary: "I thought of the elderly man whose acquaintance I'd unexpectedly made while situated on an airplane, ached afresh over the trials of a stranger. He'd lost whomever his Chelsea had been, and I desperately hoped she wasn't all he'd had left in the world."**REPOST





	Somebody's Chelsea

**Somebody's Chelsea**

 

 

“Chelsea,” the Secret Service agent posted next to the car outside the airport nodded politely at me and moved to courteously open the door to the back seat. Returning the gesture, I tipped my head in his direction before sliding into place and pulling my door shut. I watched as he and the second agent - who had been flanking me for the duration of my travels – walked around to the front of the vehicle.

 

 

“How was your trip?” the one who hadn't been with me inquired, looking up to make eye contact with me in the visor mirror before he started the engine.

 

 

For all the challenges that were tied up in being a president's daughter, there were positives too – something I'd come to realise much more easily in hindsight. Of the many people who had been entrusted with the job of protecting me as a child, few had remained with me as I'd come into adulthood. Those who proved the exception, however, had stepped over the professional line and managed to forge with myself and my family valued personal relationships. After voyages of all kinds, (especially ones that proved particularly tiresome as my latest) having the ones who found themselves in that category waiting to greet me with kind smiles and genuine concern was always deeply appreciated.

 

 

“It was good,” I said with a half smile before resting my head gently against the window as we began to roll gently along. “Busy, but good.”

 

 

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I'm sure everyone here missed you.”

 

 

“I missed them,” I told him with more force than I'd meant to. Much as I loved travelling, I'd never get used to time zones' worth of separation between myself and those I cared about most.

 

 

“Radio or no?”

 

 

I smiled to myself at the sincerity that laced the question. On regular days – during different circumstances – he was always one to have music playing as we drove along completing whichever tasks needed doing. Sometimes though, when he took in the heavy, dark bags that lined the underside of my eyes, he was first to ask if I'd like to exchange a musical backdrop for the comfortable, predictable silence of tires whirring underfoot.

 

 

“Sure,” I smiled, barely able to keep my eyes open but complete quietude seeming too much for the moment. “Not too loud, though.”

 

 

Winking in understanding, I saw him turn the dial, heard the chords of an all too familiar ballad wafting through the speakers nearest my head.

 

 

_I wanna be somebody's Chelsea,_  
Somebody's world.  
Somebody's day and night,  
One and only girl...

 

 

 

As I laughed to myself much harder than I meant to, I caught out of the corner of my eye one of few agents who sometimes knew me better than I knew myself glancing at me as if I'd lost my mind. Waving a hand in a dismissive fashion - letting him know it was a rare bit of information on which he hadn't been briefed – my mind travelled back to days prior and an unexpected encounter while I'd flown First Class on an airplane.

 

 

///

 

 

_“_ Excuse me,” the stranger said politely, a frailty brought on by age lacing his voice. He'd been situated in one of the seats behind me, myself not even having noticed his presence at all until he'd made effort to lean over and speak. Thinning white hair, equally thinned skin and weathered hands caught my attention as I gave him a quick once over. As I returned my gaze to his face, warm eyes a bright shade of blue saw my mind painting an otherwise invisible picture of my father. 

 

 

“Yes?” Shifting slightly in my seat, I extended a half smile.

 

 

“I'm sorry to bother you,” he said, voice genuinely apologetic though I didn't feel hounded in the least. “But are you Chelsea Clinton?”

 

 

“That would be me,” I told him warmly, beyond used to recognition. The plain clothed detail in the seat next to me twitched lightly and I sensed that he was on high alert. Giving him a look only the two of us knew the meaning of, I let him know he could tone it down several notches, that I didn't feel threatened. 

 

 

“I couldn't be sure,” the elderly man said with a squint and a light laugh. I wondered to myself if he'd forgotten his glasses, but didn't say so out loud. “My vision's starting to go. Happens when you get to be my age.”

 

 

I nodded, eyes sparkling, appreciated his efforts to see the humour in the slow process of becoming older that proved inevitable for all of us.

 

 

“Anyway, I'll stop rambling,” he said, waving a palm through the air as if to dismiss his own antics. “I just wanted you to know that I voted for your mother. I appreciate all she's tried to do for the country, would've liked to have seen her get a chance to do more. I'm really sorry it didn't turn out that way.”

 

 

His smile was wistful and my heart thudded just the slightest bit louder in my ears. The way he was looking at me – never having broken eye contact and as if he could see right through me – caused a bubbling up of emotions inside me that was involuntary. Usually masterful at hiding them, I chastised myself for being unable and prayed silently they'd not spill over.

 

 

“I'll tell her,” I told him softly. “Thank you for your kindness.” I was beyond grateful for the mass amounts of it people had extended since my mother's loss – it saw me through some of the darker days – but as I sat conversing with this unknown man and it hit me how many changes he had to have seen in the span of his lifetime, knowing he supported any or all of the ones my mother had intended to implement struck an entirely different chord and seemed to mean even more.

 

 

“Just speaking my truth, child,” he winked.

 

 

Silence enveloped us for short minutes before permission was given over a loudspeaker to get up and stretch our stiffened limbs. As I watched him carefully shuffle out of his seat, I offered my assistance and he graciously refused it, took the few steps over to stand close to where I was still sitting. Laboured as those steps seemed to be, he was determined to take them all by himself, stand on his own two feet as long as he was permitted.

 

 

“You've a husband?” he tilted his chin toward the ring glinting on my left hand, crossed over my right and resting limply in my lap.

 

 

“I do,” I answered with a smile, catching a wedding band resting on a bony finger opposite me in my peripheral. “You've a wife?” I asked, tilting my chin the same way.

 

 

“Used to,” he told me sadly, and I wondered if I should've said anything at all. “Sixty years. Died a couple months back. I still wear the ring because I can't seem to get over it.”

 

 

“I'm so sorry,” I said for lack of anything better.

 

 

“Sometimes doesn't feel like she's gone,” he mused. “But I guess we all have to go sometime.”

 

 

I nodded lightly, let silence fall for lack of words to fill it and a desire not to overstep.

 

 

“Hold on to a good one, if you've got 'em,” he said after a while, piercing the quiet. “Marriage is hard.”

 

 

Instantly, my parents flashed through my mind's eye. They'd not made it quite as long as the man standing edgeways to me and his wife I'd never met - I hoped that they would – was sure that to the two of them the years between felt both longer and shorter than they were.

 

 

_'Marriage is hard'_ rolled over and over in my head and I caught myself nodding involuntarily at the truth of the sentiment. So many times I'd sensed the difficulties within my parents' union, gotten swept up in bits of the chaos even though they'd done their best to protect and shield me from it. My father had worried often - sometimes vocalising so to me - about how men would treat me given the examples he'd chosen to set. Despite everything, I was - would first and foremost always be -  _his_ Chelsea; he felt a responsibility to show me right from wrong, and for a time he felt he'd failed. 

 

 

I knew I'd gotten lucky with my husband, but as I sat there in the quiet, this elderly man's sentiment still rattling in my head I couldn't help but think that as far as parents went I'd also gotten lucky with them. Their best efforts had been enough, good as any parent, flawed humans though they all were, should expect. They too had gotten lucky with each other. Storms had weathered them, at times even separated them, but through each one they'd found their way back to what was important.

 

 

“It sure is,” I finally managed, “but it seems both of us got incredibly lucky in who we've chosen to ride out the struggles with.” My eyes travelled to his still occupied ring finger afresh, and I smiled realising that some love stories – regardless of imperfections – never had an end. I had no doubts my parents' would prove to be one, and I hoped beyond all hope mine would, too.

 

 

///

 

My phone ringing brought me out of my reverie – one that had apparently decided to follow me into my dreams as I'd unintentionally fallen completely asleep. Soft music still played in the background, tires were still spinning easily beneath me as I extracted it from my pocket.

 

 

“Hello?”

 

 

“How's my Chelsea?” Dad's voice, affection which laced it thicker than his accent, came easily down the line and saw me grinning like a Cheshire cat into the mouthpiece.

 

 

“Hey Dad,” I laughed. “I'm fine. On my way home from the airport. The kids and I will visit soon.”

 

 

“They missed you,” he told me, evidently having spent time with them while I was away. “How was your trip? Your Mama's here too, by the way. You're on speaker.”

 

 

“Hi baby,” Mum echoed happily, and I was suddenly overcome by how much I missed her.

 

 

“Hello mother,” I said. “Trip was fine, Dad. I'm exhausted.”

 

 

“No doubt. Go home and sleep off the jet lag, we'll talk to you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

_...He made me laugh when he talked about,_  
Their first date and her father's doubts.  
He said, "Even as her hair turned grey,  
she still took my breath away."  
And that it never changed with time,  
that's when I closed my eyes...

 

_I wanna be somebody's Chelsea,_  
somebody's world.  
Somebody's day and night,  
one and only girl.  
A part of a love story,  
That never has an end.  
You know that's what every woman wants to be,  
somebody's Chelsea...

 

 

Verses of the song rang louder in my ears than they should've done for the volume at which the radio was set and I knew it had to have played multiple times throughout the span of time that had passed since I'd first gotten into the vehicle. Thinking of my husband, my children, my family - knowing I was their Chelsea and how deep and unconditional our love was for each other – saw tears I hadn't planned on shedding fall silently down my face.

 

 

I thought of the elderly man whose acquaintance I'd unexpectedly made while situated on an airplane, ached afresh over the trials of a stranger. He'd lost whomever his Chelsea had been, and I desperately hoped she wasn't all he'd had left in the world.

 

 

“Okay Daddy, I will. I love you both.”

 

 

“What's wrong, honey?” Mum asked perplexedly before hanging up, undoubtedly having heard my tears through my best attempts to stifle them.

 

 

_'I just wanted you to know that I voted for your mother.'_

 

The unknown man's distinct lilt – entirely different from my father's – laced the words turning over in my head, and I silently scolded myself for not even asking his name.

 

 

“Nothing,” I said as I half heartedly wiped at my eyes and stifled a sniffle. “There was just this guy on the plane.......”

 

 

 

-FIN

 


End file.
